The Charred Hyde
by sr.michaelbucket
Summary: (slash) A man is lost in the mind of a girl and all that remains of what he once was is his charred flesh and a face of which he no longer recognizes.
1. Chapter 1

The clouds in the sky, crimson as if they were stained by blood, moved so fast, but never left. Fire engulfed a city, burned the remains of it's pride and it's people, but it was cold, almost freezing. This city, though, had inhabitants. There were savage hounds that controlled main street. They hunted down and killed any new soul that was taken by the girl's hand. Then there were the cultists, rather new to this mind, that had more organization to their tactics but were still, for the most part, mindless. There were ghosts that kept the other beings from entering the mind's representation of important buildings from the girl's life, or phantom afterlife. Finally, there was him. He was never bothered, never attacked, never questioned, and never doubted, even by the mindless savages and cultists. Not even the ghosts dare stop him from going where he wanted. His name was Harold Keegan.


	2. Chapter 2

Solitude was a normal setting for Harold. Not just here, but it was in his real life all the same. Every now and again, a man would show up, one he didn't know, and just walk around. He had a similar signature to Alma's, yet, looked more like Harold Wade. Keegan kept away from him and the other man seemed to show him the same respect, giving him only a side glance or a nod of acknowledgment from time to time. The closest he had ever gotten to the man was when he was exploring an office building near the city square. He turned a corner and found himself face-to-face with him. The stared at each other for awhile before Harold spoke up. "Who are you?" he asked, voice bitter and gravel-like from not speaking for long periods.

"Oh, you have a consciousness. I thought you were just a figment of my mother's imagination."

"Your mother... You're one of Alma's?"

"Yes, and that's all you need to know. I'll be honest, I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone here. All of you are here for a reason that isn't innocent."

"I was used as bate to separate Michael Becket from our squad. When Alma got what she wanted, she saw fit to plunge me down here." The man grunted and turned to the fire exit.

"You're a double-sided man, I can feel it in you. One part kind, one part enraged. Which side of you is this? I feel rage but I don't see it." Harold ran his hand through his brittle hair, seemingly looking down at the floor, but it was uncertain having his eyes be black sockets in his charred, ash-like flesh.

"I suppose the kind side of me, seeing as I haven't tried to kill you yet. I'd leave before that happened. It'd be good for the both of us." The son of Alma nodded and left soundlessly.

Harold now sat in a store front, smoking a cigarette he found in the back room. He hadn't been a smoker in his life before, too caught up in his health, but he was practically dead here anyway, so a smoke seemed to just be a non-consequential joy. He had so few of those now.


	3. Chapter 3

"Just back off!" Harold snapped at a savage that found the courage to try and approach him. The creatures were becoming more and more persistent as the days dragged on. Nothing, now, seemed to shoo off the young one so that Keegan would have a moment's rest other than the bolt of lighting that sent the beastie into a mad scramble to it's pod. The bright web of light almost caused Harold to yelp just as the monster did. Lightning was the sign of a new body entering Alma's mind. It had been too long since any prior had occurred. "There," Harold Grumbled, "go play with them for a little while." The pod of savages tore off down main street, tumbling over one another in their wild frenzy. There would just be some screaming before all went silent as the creatures ate, leaving nothing to bother the psychic for a while longer let it be noise or the only monsters that would approach him. A figure passed like a blur of light by the storefront window. Behind it, the savages, some wounded and other's falling dead.

Harold stood up and peered though the glass. A figure bolted from left to right, body only in one spot for a nano second then finding itself somewhere else. Whatever or whoever this was, it was killing the Pod off three-by-three. Keegan strode out of the store, approaching from behind the remaining beasties with strange leisure just as they fell. The figure bolted off in the opposite direction, slowing down as it ran. It took the form of a human male, Caucasian, black-haired and bulked up with armor. Eyes red and burning with blood lust fallowed his every step. Savages where one thing, but when all you had was a knife versus the hordes upon hordes of Cultists, no matter how fast one may be, they'd die in a matter of minutes. With a sigh, Harold's body dissipated into ash. The peaces of burned skin fluttered down onto the asphalt where he once stood. Keegan reappeared again in a store front farther ahead of the man. The man ducked into an office building. Keegan walked across the street and, ever cautiously, entered the building after him. A trail of fresh blood be the man's first mistake here. Behind each corner, each cubical, each door leading to the next floor, Harold Expected to find the man either dead or dying somewhere near, but the blood trail dragged on, thinning every few feet before, finally, disappearing all together. Upon the trail's, fading, Keegan growled. "I'll go up one more flight and if he's not there, he's dead." A rod of bent metal dug into the soldier's charred flesh, but did nothing but rip a layer of his ash-coated skin away. Harold had long since ditched his armor to allow him easier movement and less weight to haul around. It made things better, but leaving him somewhat vulnerable. All he had now was a short sleeve grey T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, and a pair of worn combat boots since void of laces.

The next door he walked through led out onto the roof. It had been open when he got there. Not even a body or roar of cultists below signified the man's presents or his death. "He just vanished in a puff of smoke..." Keegan hissed out under his breath. As he turned, he was met by a blade to his face, He turned his head back slowly, just to tease or scare his attacker like a killer in a horror movie. The other man backed away. He slowly leaned back, as if meaning to press against the wall, but fell down the stairs onto a landing below. Harold sighed and walked down the stairs to meet the man. Keegan crouched down to examine him. His wounds were minor, though many in number. As he lifted the other's arm, it was yanked back, but not so far so that it's owner could reach out and touch Harold's cheek.

"Keegan?"


	4. Chapter 4

That little pang could have found a way to creep into the coldest, the most desolate, the darkest and lost heart. Michael say before Harold not looking upon him in disgust, fear, or even pity. He stared with a new found delight, sending Keegan into utter confusion, but also making his cold heart warm and freeze in sync. There was a law that most being in Alma's hellish prison fallowed and it was to never cater to the weak. Michael was weak. He was like a child no older than two lost in a forest. He bore bleeding wounds and hadn't any idea how to survive here. Well, perhaps he had a slight idea, but this was different now. Harold wanted to help him, but all the same wanted to live himself. The beasties were getting bolder. They'd get over their fear of him sooner or later and he didn't want Michael around when it happened. With a sharp turn on his heels, Keegan stalked down onto the next landing. "Hay, where are you going?" Keegan turned back, meeting his black sockets with Michael's smokey grey eyes, so strong yet blistered with terror.

"Where I should be. And if you're as smart as I know you to be, you'd stay here and wait for the beasts to finish you off."

"What!"

"I'd prefer of you commit suicide. It'd be less painful. It's be quick." '_Don't do this to him..._' the other him was there. He was talking to him in a way he'd never have guess. The problem was, the him speaking to him was the bad him, the evil him. Why was that side trying to sway him towards the better of another being? "You wouldn't survive. You can't. I hardly have a week before the things realize I'm vulnerable and then I'll end up just as bad, most likely worse." '_Then save him. Give yourself some peace before going. Don't die with the agony of his death on your shoulders. He'll be all you have. You won't be alone. Not anymore..._'

"I've thought for the past few months that I killed you, that you were gone, that everyone was gone, and it was all my fault. Now here I find you again and you won't even so much as let me know if I did right or wrong by you, or anyone else." His voice was shaken with barred back sobs.

"Mike, of coarse you did right. You did all you could. I watched you the entire way. I may not have been in control, but I saw you. You're a hero, no matter what anyone else says. I know that's corny and stupid, but it's true. You tried to save me, I know, and when you could do no more to help me, you did exactly what I was hoping you would, and I saw it those last few seconds. Please, do it again. Do what I'm hoping you'll do so I don't have to suffer or see you suffer. I want you away from the hell, the pain. You of all people need it. You deserve it." Though he had no eyes, Harold began a war to hold back his tears. "God's not waiting for me anymore, I've done too much wrong, but he is for you. If you wait any longer you'll become like everyone here. You'll change and the gates of heaven will close for you, too. Just do it, please."

"They never close when you still have a chance to repent."

"Mike, just do it. I've neglected God's love all my life. I've hid from him, ran from him, tried to under stand him but I never came to terms. You did. You have all the chances in the world while I blew every one of mine. Just let go before that all changes. I can't repent. I hardly ever believed that he could save me."

"Then how could you believe he can save _me_?" Harold shook his head.

"It's only hope."

"Then so long as you have that, I'm staying with you."

"No! If you don't kill yourself than I'll do it for you! I don't want you with me, near me, in my head, in my dreams like you have been every night since I got trapped here! I want you somewhere where nothing can hurt you, nothing can torment you."

"That's not possible because no matter where I go, I'll know that you're in pain!"

"Sense when has my pain ever matter to you?" Among the raised voices, but a whisper stood out, one that made the only sense. The only one Harold could hear. '_Don't make that mistake. You may not know it, but you need him just as much as he knows he needs you._' Harold didn't know why, but it was the voice of reason. It made the only sense, and Harold soon found out why.

"Ever since I fell in love with you!" Keegan stared blankly at the other, tears in either man no longer retrained, "I always thought you were funny, smart, a bit of a smart _ass _at times, and I loved it. I loved everything about you. And now I can't even hear the same voice I've been listening to on Armacham recordings or in my head. I know who you were then, but I don't know where you are now, and I want to find you So I can tell you everything and know that you understand in the way you always did. If I even heard one of your jokes or just your normal voice again, I could die and have nothing more to want to live for. The last voice I want to hear is yours. The last thing I want to see is you..." Keegan's looked down at the floor and knew there was to be no more arguing with Michael. He grabbed the knife, holding the the younger man down with his knee. Shock in Michael's eyes bore deeply into Harold like spears tipped with the most toxic of all poisons. Blade to Becket's throat, Harold leaned down , lips close to Michael's.

"I'm sorry," he began. Michael's breathing accelerated just as his heart beat, "I'm sorry I felt like I needed to scare you." Keegan gave a rough smile and tossed the blade aside, picking Michael up and holding him Bridal style, tightly and pressing him nose to the younger man's cheek. "First joke I made in a while. Hope you're happy, Mike."

"Not when it's a fucked up joke like that!" Michael kicked his legs free, but let Harold keep his hold on his waist. The atmosphere around them both lifted like a thick veil of humid air. The frigged cold of the actual air, though, seemed to bite them much more lightly than before. it seemed almost warm. " But it's a start. I'll see you to the finish line."

"I'm counting on it."


	5. Chapter 5

Though, at the time, Keegan was at good terms when he brought Michael to his little hideout, he got the sick feeling that he made the wrong choice. That evil side of him was never the right one to abide by, or maybe it had taken control and was the side that wanted the kill Becket and the good him was telling him what to do. But he had been nice to Michael, expressed his pains to him and tried to reason. Those were not the ways of the bad him, yet the good him would never want to kill Mike or want to convince him into suicide.

Michael was looking around with such a smooth calm. It wasn't the way of a lost man or one that had been on the brink of death hours before. It was only curiosity and that mask that Harold knew Michael wore to hide his pains. He was a depressed man, always had been. Yet, for everyone who knew and cared for him, he smiled. He laughed at jokes. He stood tall. Harold marveled at his strength, his endurance, but he also shook his head to the desolation of a mental instability. At first, the doctors weren't even able to tell that Mike was depressed. They thought he was fine and just a little moody, later realizing that the man was gone in deep. They realized too late; just as they had done with Harold. Keegan had received a call from his therapist hours before the Aristide assignment stating that he was in no fit mental state to run the mission, or any mission ever again. His mind was failing. There were too many things wrong with it. The topping weakness of them all was Bipolarity. He'd been two people all his life, but he never showed the other side to the people he knew, and for that, it began to get worse. He began to lash out. His parents thought it a discipline issue and sent him to a correctional facility where the medical staff there were able to call it out in the blink of an eye.

Harold's parents wanted nothing to do with him then. They sent him to a boarding school for the majority of his childhood and teen years. When he was ready to go home, he was twenty three and in no mood to see them. He joined the Military, when he was still stable, knowing that he'd not see them often. The training, the physical pressure, ate away at a few of the strings like rats and the missions cut the rest. He was fully gone in weeks, but able to keep in hidden with whatever strength he had left. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. His disobedience and stubbornness kept him from doing the right thing. It cost Michael his virginity, his freedom, and now, his life.

Becket caught wind of Harold's daydreaming and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Is it safe to sleep here?"

"Michael, what do I look like to you, appearance wise, physically." Becket tilted his head.

"Well, a burnt man without eyes, but you didn't look like that in the stairwell. You looked normal."

"What?"

"You're skin changed when you smiled, when you were joking with me. It looked still a little burnt, but you had eyes and seemed almost like yourself."

"Myself..." Keegan sat down on the floor and sighed, back pressed to the wall as he ran his fingers through his hair. Inside his mouth, he ran his tongue over the sharp tips on his teeth. One caught on the skin and ripped a little jagged line over the tongue, but no blood was drawn. There wasn't any to draw anymore. He was just a body of ashes. Somehow, though, Michael could see more. More than Harold could. If he could see him changing...

"So, can I sleep?" Harold looked up and sighed, messaging his temples.

"uh... Yeah, it's safe so long as I keep an eye on things."

"Don't you need sleep, too?"

"I don't sleep. Just lay down, I'll keep you safe," he said as Michael laid down on a cot next to Harold, "I promise." Harold could feel as Michael's head slipped into the bliss of rest. One said bliss he had lost from his first three days in imprisonment here. He'd learned so much those first three days. Harold leaned back and blacked out from the world. His head was somewhere he'd rather it not be, but for the sake of Becket, he had to go there.

"Alma..." his voice rang into the void, "I know, even if you never reply, I know you can hear me. You sick little bastard better let Michael leave! He has family, people who love him, care for him. I can stay as a little soul to torment till death, but he has no room to belong here. I don't know how, but if you don't give him a way out, I will end you. I will find a way..."


End file.
